


Win, Lose, Draw

by ladysisyphus



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: cowboys playing poker, somebody's got a crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: Hannibal Heyes gets a demonstration of his new partner's speed with a gun.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Win, Lose, Draw

Like most things with the Kid, it came down to his quickdraw.  
  
Heyes had known the Kid was a good shot, of course -- the cocky little rooster had gone out of his way to make _everyone_ in the vicinity sure they knew he was dead accurate, and it wasn't at all empty air -- and had on occasion had cause to notice that, sure, maybe the Kid's gun was a little speedier getting from resting to pointing than most. But on most of those occasions, which had usually involved charging in with guns _already_ drawn, it hadn't been much more than a novel observation, made in the service of getting something more important looked to.  
  
But everyone's piece was in its holster that night at the saloon, where Heyes had worked his way into a poker game full of loudmouths and suckers who played like an exhibition game of how to lose and be sore about it. He'd left the Kid at the bar with arms full of pretty girls to take up the open chair, and so had been surprised when, about a dozen hands in, he'd caught sight of the Kid perched on a stool just behind him, watching him play. The other players had regarded the arrangement with curious stares -- after all, a man didn't usually take to having his cards watched from over his shoulder -- but Heyes had let it go, so they'd settled down.  
  
At least, until Heyes had bluffed his way into winning three big pots in a row with nothing in his hand but garbage, and then it wasn't the Kid who was keeping them from settling. "You're damned lucky tonight, mister," growled the meanest-looking of the bunch, a slick-haired fellow who looked like he might outweigh Heyes and the Kid combined. "Ain't nobody _that_ lucky."  
  
"Well, it's a good thing I'm a little ol' nobody," Heyes smiled, trying to play down the tension even as he reached forward to sweep chips and bills alike toward his edge of the table. He knew this stage of the game well -- the tipping point where bad players stopped blaming their misfortune on luck and started blaming it on deception -- and under _any_ other set of circumstances would probably have packed up right now, before inevitability got the best of everything. But he was still high on a day-old successful bank robbery, and the odds were still too good, and maybe he was a little less inclined than he'd admit to back down in front of certain watchful blue eyes, so he started to gather the cards into a pile. "Now, gentlemen, I believe it may be my deal?"  
  
Before he could get more than a dozen or so picked up, though, the slick-haired man pushed back a little in his seat and leaned across the table, fixing Heyes with a menacing stare. "I _said_ , ain't nobody that lucky, and ain't nobody that good, neither. So that leaves just one more option."  
  
"Well, now." Heyes shuffled the newly re-stacked deck flat on the table, where everyone could see every move he made. "I think you've moved past option two a little two quick there."  
  
"You think I'm stupid, boy?"  
  
Heyes kept his smile plastered to his face long after he felt even a sliver of it. "No, sir. In fact, I think you're smart enough to figure out that a man playing dishonest poker usually cheats his way into better hands than I've been getting, which is why I figure you'll sit down and come back to the next hand all peaceable-like before you make a wildly unfounded accusation that's downright difficult to take back." He shuffled through the cards again, splitting them into perfect halves, folding them in one over the other, and bridging them back into line.  
  
The man curled his lip into a sneer, and the correspondingly sour expressions elsewhere around the table let Heyes know he hadn't made many friends with his logic. "You get your hands away from those cards, you sneaky sack of--"

What happened next happened so fast that Heyes had to think on it several times later to sort out the whole order of events. He never quite got to hear exactly _what_ he was a sneaky sack of, because to punctuate his foul language, the man lunged forward across the table, hand outstretched, presumably meaning to grab Heyes' wrists and pull out whatever he'd imagined Heyes had kept secreted in the cuffs of his shirt. He never made it that far, though, because there was a click and a flash just to Heyes' left as the saloon's lamplight caught the long, polished barrel of the Kid's Colt, freezing everyone in their respective tracks.  
  
It might not have been the smartest move, considering the potential peril just in front of him, but Heyes let his curiosity get the better of him and turned his head just slightly to the left. The Kid had taken off his gloves earlier in the evening, and his hand was bare around the barrel, clenched tight enough that Heyes could see the tendons taut through the Kid's tanned skin. He let his gaze travel up the Kid's rock-steady arm, motionless as if someone had carved him from wood and placed him there like a kind of scarecrow meant to frighten off idiots instead, up his shoulder and neck to his mouth, which was fixed in a humorless, thin smirk. By the time Heyes got there, he was sure his own mouth looked the same.  
  
"My partner plays honest cards," said the Kid, his voice just above a whisper and still loud enough to carry like thunder. "Guess it's hard to tell the difference when you're playing at a table of walkoffs."  
  
Before the Kid could explain what the hell he meant by that, Heyes folded the cards again and placed them in the middle of the table, then collected his winnings and shoved them into the inside pocket of his jacket, trying all the while not to look _too_ pleased by the slack-jawed players. He probably could have taken all _their_ winnings from the tabletop as well, with the way they had their eyes glued to the Kid's pistol, but it seemed like insult to injury, and anyway, he didn't want to make the Kid out to be a liar. "Thank you, gentlemen, for a lovely evening." Heyes tipped his hat to his card-playing partners, then strode out the closest exit, the Kid's boots tapping close behind him.  
  
They were on their mounts and halfway out of the night-quiet town before Heyes turned to the Kid. "Where'd you learn to draw like that?"  
  
The Kid shrugged, though he drew himself up smug as if to say, _I'm glad you noticed_. "Practice."  
  
"Practice," Heyes echoed, shaking his head. He didn't want to smile, he absolutely did _not_ want to encourage the Kid, who had a head swelled enough already without Heyes' help -- but teams of wild horses attached to the corners of his mouth couldn't've kept his lips down. Maybe what made the Kid's arrogance bearable was how he didn't think a thing of himself that wasn't absolutely, maddeningly true. "...So what on earth's a 'walkoff'?"  
  
As it turned out, though, he'd have to wait on that answer, because before the Kid could get the first word of explanation out, a gunshot sounded in the distance, back from the direction they'd come. Two strangers in the saloon weren't much to remark on, but two strangers with money _and_ guns had no doubt given one of Heyes' card partners the jump-start he needed to put two and two together and get $20,000. The sound of heavy hooves followed shortly on the crack of firearms, and Heyes hesitated only long enough to share a wink with his ridiculous, amazing partner before they spurred on their horses in unison and galloped away into the night.


End file.
